


Moonflowers

by Golvio



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9787139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golvio/pseuds/Golvio
Summary: The tale of the journey of Prince Abayomi and his two guards to gather his bridal crown and meet his future Queen, as told through the eyes of the Great and Esteemed Sage Nabooru, their companion and officiator of the past sixty royal weddings (give or take).(Beneath that, a tale that no one dares breathe aloud, of the Witch King, how he failed his people, and how his people failed him.)





	

The sun blazed down on the river that cut through the land, tracing its way from the northern edge where the land was green, to the southern edge where the desert finally met the sea. It reflected upon its waters as if thousands of jewels had been cast into the waters in offerings of gratitude.

The sun blazed just as brilliantly through its reflection on the old woman’s head. She didn’t mind. Years in the outdoors had already baked her skin to leather, and she’d stopped feeling the heat a long time ago.

She was expected in Yoru that evening. Of course, she knew she was expected. They’d sent word to her, and now their expectation came chattering to her upon the wind. Before that, she passed through five towns’ worth of expectation and joy, amplified by the recent broadcast on the public radio; a speech from the young man she was to visit.

_“My people, blessings upon you all…”_

Prince Abayomi was seventeen. Rather old for a first marriage, but times had changed. The desperation that centuries of war and famine had wrought had receded as the railroad tracks crept further into the desert. Now, even in the Wastes people were living longer. There was no longer a hurry to find the Prince a suitable Queen. 

_“I speak to you for the first time as I prepare to leave my homeland…”_

With every century that passed, each woman with the fortune to bear their people’s lone son had become kinder. The decision this time had come down to Eshe, the boy’s mother, also the chief of the women of Yoru. She had chosen a promising young rider from the canyons. Goat country, of course, but the people who lived there lived modestly and were gracious to visitors. Jaha, soon to be Queen as the prince’s betrothed, was no different. She was respected by the elders of her town as a herder, and was a master rider. At the same time, she was one of the women chiefly responsible for bringing the railroads inland; she led her kinswomen to ride alongside the workers, providing them with supplies and protecting them from bandits as they forged the path. In doing so, she had brought great prosperity to the valleys of her home, and the people hoped she would continue to bring prosperity as their Queen. Eshe had chosen wisely; not only was Jaha a good candidate, but she was also the same age as Abayomi. The Kings tended to take better to wives who were closer to them in age.

_“…and take my place beside the seat of power as your future King.”_ His voice was high, and cracked from the remnants of youth that still caught in his throat, but his words came through with a clarity beyond his years.

Of course, he was not King yet. Every King needed a Queen, for the Queen was the sword and shield of the King. She was the one who ministered earthly affairs so that the King could focus on divine and spiritual ones. This broadcast commemorated the official announcement of what had been decided by a group of elders behind closed covers: that Abayomi’s ascent would be marked by his marriage to Jaha, the best and most respected among them.

The speech did not quite leave the old woman as spellbound as the people of the towns and outposts she passed, although not for lack of substance or poor delivery. She could not hear his proclamation with the awe of fresh ears, as she’d heard it many times before. The prince had discussed it with her, and then settled his nerves by reciting it to her, every night, in the middle of a dream. Each morning, he would wake only to have yet another snatch of a sentence, yet another concept that he could write a paragraph around, and he frantically wrote it down on something one of the old handmaids brought him.

Still, it was one thing to hear him say it in his soft, hesitating voice within the room that he had pieced together from his memories and impressions of what a dwelling ought to look like, and another to hear him project his voice into a crystal transmitter, appearing as King-to-be in the minds of subjects in tents and tavern halls all across the desert. His voice even reached out into the green fields of Hyrule, in the cities where the desert’s daughters had gathered to try to make a living. Even though they now lived under the jurisdiction of another king, they crowded around the little brown boxes from which issued the voice of the young man who ruled the landscape of their hearts.

The old woman arrived at her destination at dusk. It was the encampment of Yoru, in the land of the red earth. Like most settlements that had survived for this long, it sat near the tributary of the Great River. Despite its humble size, this little branch of the river brought its people fortune due to a special property in the soil of its riverbanks. When wet, the earth solidified into a dark red clay that was fired and shaped into the finest earthenware in the whole desert. The jug of water that Nabooru wore at her waist was one such piece, painted with a simple black and white zig-zag; no matter how many times it banged against her hip as she walked, it never cracked or chipped, and it had served her for many years. Ever since the railroads were built, demand for Yoru’s wares increased far beyond the nearby markets and the occasional travelling merchant, bringing new prosperity into this little camp to the point where the chief could afford to have radio equipment brought for her son’s first public address.

The chief and her family lived in the massive fortress sculpted out of that very same earth that towered above the violet tents around it. It sat upon the highest point of the canyon, with its back to the cliff wall. The timbers that supported it, whose posts jutted out of the earthen walls at regular intervals, had been imported from the Great River Valley centuries ago, holding the roof over countless generations of chieftains ever since.

Chief Eshe herself was no less sturdy and dependable than the beams that held up her home. She was clad in the violet hues of her tribe, and was no less massive than her fortress, although somewhat less intimidating at first glance. The years of wealth her tribe enjoyed had granted her a mirthful expression and an impressively protruding potbelly. However, that softness did not quite detract from the impression given by the enormous scimitar whose scabbard was tied to the crimson sash around her waist, and the mass of dreadlocks held behind her head with a gold band, marking her as a warrior of many victories. Although the women of Yoru were potters by trade, they were also warriors by necessity, as were so many other tribes that lived near the wastelands. They most likely had to double their defenses in the name of their other most precious resource, born to them seventeen years before.

Beside her stood a bent, gnarled shrub of a woman. This was Jaha’s grandmother, who had arrived with the dowry of goats that now bleated and stampeded around the fortress grounds as a gaggle of girls tried to herd them inside. She had arrived in the stead of Jaha’s mother, who remained behind to aid her daughter with preparations for the wedding ceremony.

“Most Exalted Sage Nabooru,” boomed Eshe as she bowed forward as far as her great belly would allow, “We are honored by your presence.” Jaha’s grandmother did not need to put as much effort into bowing, as her spine did that for her, but returning upright proved somewhat more difficult. “The elders are inside,” she continued, “A banquet is being set up as we speak. You must be weary from your long journey.”

“Thank you, Chief Eshe. A meal and a drink are always welcome, particularly on a day of celebration like this.”

They passed through the great gate into the fortress itself. The tribe colors adorned the carpets and curtains, contrasting beautifully with the earthen walls. The main hall contained a table of knee-height that stretched all the way to the far end of the room. Seated at cushions around the table were a few scattered handfuls of old women, each of them either an elder of the Yoru people or of the coalition of tribes that lived in and around the canyons. The feast had not yet been prepared, and the final members of the party of elders had not yet arrived, and so Nabooru was ushered into the back rooms to what would be her quarters that night.

In the true spirit of Gerudo hospitality, all of the guest rooms were equal in their modest appearance, but contained all that was needed for a good night’s rest. A cushioned mat and several pillows lay in the corner, covered with blankets for the frigid nights. There was a line hung up near the window-opening in the wall for drying sweat-drenched clothes, which she used gladly. The wind had picked up outside, causing her greyed cloak to rustle with relief after it left her shoulders.

A few jugs of water were in the corner, freshly filled from the river and hauled upstairs by the broad-shouldered serving girls; smaller ones for drinking, and a large one for bathing. Two gold and bronze containers of sand-oil and herbs rested next to them, left for guests who weren’t used to living near a river and preferred the old ways. Most likely they were added after the Prince was born, as people from all over the desert no doubt came to see him, first to pay their respects, and then to beg him to lay hands on them to cure whatever ailed them, for Father Night bestowed his healing gifts upon each and every one of his only sons.

Nabooru took the little jars; water-bathing was too troublesome and required a servant to handle the larger jar, and the smell of tea tree and juniper always reminded her of home. As she scooped out the contents, she noticed her fingers came away covered with a deep red, the same as the banks of the river, unlike the yellow and brown customarily associated with sand-oil. It stuck well to her, and she could practically sculpt it into a second skin. She worked in order of ease, first on her weathered face, then across her taut arms, then across the thin skin of her flesh and back, where muscle and bone poked through. The soles of her feet had grown so tough that they were little more than giant calluses on the ends of her legs. Most of the time she had no need for shoes, except for the places where cacti and goat heads grew or scorpions made their nests.

As she rested and waited for her second skin to dry, her mind reached out and touched each and every presence within the castle. There was much anxious excitement towards the front of the castle; the last elders had begun to arrive, bearing wedding gifts for Eshe and her son. A few of the Yoru girls stirred in annoyance; more things to carry and haul around after they had finally gathered all of the goats into the stables. Eshe was among them, her face hurt from smiling, but her heart sat still and hard in her chest like a peach pit, her thoughts turning to her son’s gap-toothed smile as she held him up in her arms when he was a boy, laughing together. Further beyond was a singular, still presence, hanging motionless within a little room like the moon above the world. And, like the moon, it was familiar to her, a sight that she saw in hear dreams on several nights. Would he recognize her when he saw her?

Prince Abayomi sat as still as the moon in his chambers, praying to every being who could hear him. Din, Mother of the world, to defend him against all evil. Mother Day and Father Night, the parents of humanity, to preserve his strength over this journey and make his union fruitful. His ancestors, to watch over him. And to the souls of all of the Kings who came before him, to grant him their wisdom as he left to take his place beside his Queen.

All of the Kings, of course, except for one.

She was thankful that he didn’t ask for him, or, at least, didn’t know enough about that carefully patched-over gap in the lineage to think to ask for him. Still, that empty spot sat there, somewhat faded, unmistakable to anyone who knew it was there. Behind that flimsy patchwork of omitted history was an empty space every bit as hungry as the man who was supposed to occupy it.

The thing about asking him was that it wasn’t so much as the respectful exchange of prayer as an exchange of favors. He never did what was asked of him unless he received something in return. At first, he’d be the polite, demure little Prince that everyone expected, but with every taste the hunger would overtake him, until he’d sink his teeth into your arm and drain you of your blood, tear off your flesh, crack open your bones and suck out the marrow, more, more, more, until there was nothing left of you and he was still unsatisfied.

No, best not to think of him now. Her mind careened down dark paths whenever he entered her mind. This was a day to be happy. She took a few deep breaths, the stillness of Abayomi as her anchor, the buzzing of the guests drowning out the sounds of her own thoughts. She emptied herself and let everyone else’s feelings roost in her chest like so many little birds.

The mud had dried to the pale orange of the canyon walls, fissures appearing across her arms and legs. The shrunken mud-woman stood up on her creaking joints and began to peel the dried earth off of her, each piece taking the sweat and dirt with it. Her skin was left soft and moist, and she anointed herself with the oil in the gold jar to hide any remaining scent, and to make her wisps of hair soft and shiny again. She wrapped herself in the fresh linen that was left for her on top of the bed, leaving her traveling cloak to dry overnight.

She did not waste time calling for anyone. She knew where the main hall was, and brushed off any of the serving girls who tried to gently take her arm and lead her like some senile old great-grandmother. This time the hall was filled with food, and the tribe elders sat with each other around the table, introducing themselves and clasping hands.

As Nabooru approached, the women in the hall rose as one.

“Mother Nabooru,” twenty-five voices said at once.

“Good day to you all, my friends. Come, there’s no need to stand on such formality.”

The good Chief was startled by her guest’s sudden appearance and had to pull herself away from her son’s future grandmother-in-law.

“Mother Nabooru, you know that we must do this, as a means of showing respect to you, to whom we owe so much.”

“That is correct,” said the gnarled old woman beside her, “Without you watching over us, there would be no wedding, and no tribes to gather. We must pay our respects.”

“Chief Eshe, I have officiated about sixty royal weddings since I became Sage. Give or take.” She guffawed, to the confusion of the elders, “I’ve lived so long my memory’s not always what it should be. The point is, there is no need to be so nervous. Most things that will happen tonight I will have seen roughly sixty times before. Mine is the purview of the human spirit, and as such, I appreciate the things that make us human, even the less flattering things.” She sat on the floor and grabbed her cup to raise it in a toast. “Let us spend this evening together not as elders and Sage, but as friends with much to celebrate!” The others cheered in agreement, joined the toast, and downed their first cups of wine.

What followed was a night to remember. Or, at least, a night that would have been remembered were it not for all of the wine flowing. She remembered the meal, definitely. Dried dates to start, and then a delicious confection of barbecued goat and lamb, browned on the outside, but filled with smooth and fat-marbled meat on the inside. There also may or may not have been dancing as the night went on, but that part was less clear. She remembered Chief Eshe leaning against her as they sang an old drinking round together, and the shrill sound of Jaha’s humorless grandmother finally laughing until she cried, but before and after that were a blur. Still, she was certain that everyone there had a wonderful time.

The next morning, the fortress roused itself in a haze of hangovers and half-remembered stories. Nabooru woke when the first shafts of sunlight pierced through the lattice of her room. It used to be that she could sleep well until noon, but those days, like her girlhood, were long over. Of course, she wasn’t the only one who rose with the sun this morning; the other member of Eshe’s family that she had come to see was also awake, being dressed by his elderly attendants, his chest crawling as though it were filled with ants while his face and voice betrayed nothing. He had not slept much the night before, as he had spent his evening sequestered in the cloister above the fortress, meditating and praying in anticipation of his day of parting.

Eshe greeted her in the Gathering Hall where they had feasted the night before. The floors were spotless, and the table and cushions had been cleared away. In their place were hundreds of pairs of rushing feet as attendants and guards prepared the caravan for the Prince’s departure. Someone wheeled past a cart that contained the radio that he had used to make his address a few days before.

The Prince himself stood at his mother’s side, hands folded demurely in front of him. He wore the white robes of an unmarried young man. The shadows through the slats in the windows covered him, turning his clothes into a constellation of blazing stars. His face peeked through the white folds of his hood like a dark moon in a pale sky, still and tranquil. He was the very portrait of manly calmness, perfected through many years of practice, but both he and Nabooru could feel the crawling in his chest. The crawling began to subside as his gaze locked onto hers. His eyes were pale almond, as expected from a son of the Yoru people, and they looked into her with a wary earnestness.

“Mother Nabooru, this is my son. Come now, my treasure, don’t be shy.”

“Hello, Abayomi. It is good to see you once more.”

At his mother’s urging, he stepped forward and bowed in true princely fashion, but hesitated as he came back up.

“What troubles you, my son?” said Nabooru.

“Most esteemed Sage Nabooru, forgive my inquiring, but…have we met before?”

“I have visited your home in person, but only once. I’d be surprised if you did remember. You were just a baby.”

“I see,” his eyes narrowed from behind his veil, “But, then, how could I have seen you? Why do I know your voice?” 

“I have visited you only once in person,” she said, “After that, I have visited you in your sleep many times.”

The rest of his features did not move, but the widening of his eyes told her enough.

“…Auntie?”

Nabooru’s walnut face erupted in a brilliant smile. “Took you long enough, dear nephew.”

Eshe gave a start, and Nabooru erupted into laughter. Abayomi raised his hands to his flushing cheeks to hide them, making him look much more like the nephew she remembered.

“Forgive me. I thought you were just a creation of my dreams, someone I made to comfort myself when I felt afraid.”

“The latter part, in a way, is true, as that was why I kept coming back. The former is very much not. I’m surprised you found nothing suspicious about having the same person appear in your dreams, night after night, whenever you needed counsel. Most people never figure out how to make that happen, at least not consciously.”

“Most Exalted—”

Nabooru laughed. “Little nephew, it is fine to call me ‘Auntie’ as you always have.” She leaned forward, “And if your mother scolds you for being too informal, don’t worry. You have the approval of the Great Sage herself.” She winked at him. 

“I suppose I should have known,” said Eshe, “The Great Sage knows all. Still, I would have appreciated being told of this beforehand.”

“It’s the tradition of a good Auntie to go behind the mother’s back to spoil her nephew,” Nabooru said. “I do not decide the traditions, I just make sure they’re upheld.”

“Of course, of course. Now, if you will excuse us, I must prepare one final thing with my son. After that, it will be time to bid our farewells. Ulu, Chiku, come and escort Nabooru to the wagon.” 

The guards stepped forward. Rather, Ulu stepped forward, and Chiku leapt to match Ulu’s great stride. However, it was Chiku who extended her hand.

“Hello, Grandmother.”

Ulu elbowed Chiku with a force that should have snapped her in half, but she bent with the blow.

“What was that for?”

“She is the Sage. You will address her with respect.”

“Well, that’s the most respectful title I know. It’s not like she has to be my mother or anything.”

“She would no doubt prefer to not be chided like your eldest relative.”

“Still, I don’t think she’d want to be everyone’s mother. That’s hard work.”

“She’s right,” said Nabooru, “Although I’d rather not be called grandmother, either. I’m ancient, but not so much that I need to stay in the back tent looking after all of the children. Nabooru is fine.”

Chiku’s almond skin marked her as someone from the river valley, where shade-bringing trees grew. Not only her skin; Nabooru could hear the babbling of the river rapids and the whispering of the reeds in the way that she spoke, and felt the capricious currents of the waters in the way that she swaggered with her pike balanced on her shoulder. She wore no crest on her sash; she was an orphan, then, who found a place to stay in Eshe’s camp, and now, despite her carefree manner, had somehow become one of the few guards that the chief would trust with her tribe’s only son.

Where Chiku was river and reeds, Ulu was earth and sandstone. Her skin shone like the red earth that Eshe’s tribe used to make pottery. Indeed, she’d lived in this canyon for so long she seemed to have been shaped from the stuff that made it. Much like that soft earth, she seemed destined to become something strong and sturdy, but had not quite been tempered by fire enough to harden. Still, she was solidly built, towered two heads over everyone else, and had begun to develop the piercing gaze required of a guard. Had she been born during the siege years, she would have made a fine Iron Knuckle. 

“Very well,” said Ulu, her gaze momentarily flicking to the tallest tower in the fortress, “If it is as you wish. Let me show you the caravan. I trust you will find everything in order.”

Nabooru had seen such entourages at least sixty times before, but she held her tongue. With that soft youth came the earnest desire to prove herself. But was that the only reason why she was Eshe’s other choice? She would do her best to show her Chieftain that she deserved her trust. Still, there was that buzzing in her chest much like the Prince that she guarded. She was nervous, even with all of her strength and might.

Her manner, however, did not indicate anything of the sort. She whipped out her arm to indicate each cart with the precision and force of a soldier practicing a military drill.

“The first cart is where the Prince will live and sleep. The second and third contain his possessions, and the gifts that he will bring to his wedding. The fourth and fifth contain our supplies. You there! Careful with those water jugs!”

Ulu moved towards a group of jugs wobbling on the struggling legs of a few young village girls struggling to support them. Chiku slipped sheepishly to Nabooru’s side, sensing their shared restlessness. “Sorry, Ma, when the Chief sends her out, she gets like this. Once the Prince comes out, she’ll quiet down. She always does.”

“Nothing quite like a man’s touch to soothe the restless. In the meantime, you’d best watch yourself. It’s not me you need to worry about, it’s her elbows,” she cocked her head in Ulu’s direction. “One false move and she’ll shatter you like one of those jugs.”

The sharp peal of pottery shattering rang out in the yard. Every head turned towards its source; a young girl whose arms had given out under the weight.

“Like _that_ jug?”

“Maybe.” Nabooru winced and clicked her tongue in sympathy.

The girl who had been carrying the now broken jug stood there, covered in the evidence of her failure, tears in her eyes. She turned to Ulu, anticipating her snatching her up like a frightened hare and snapping her neck.

For a moment, fire flickered in Ulu’s eyes and she grimaced, but then she put her head in her palm and sighed, heaving her great shoulders.

“Alright, let’s go back and get another one.”

She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and began to lead her along. “ _I’ll_ carry it this time. You need to clean up. We can’t have the Chief seeing you like this. Come on.”

So _that_ was it. Although she had the look of an Iron Knuckle, she didn’t have the heart to be an executioner. A fine choice.

Chiku had slipped off again, over to the supply cart to “examine” their goods, no doubt to plan what to ask the cook to make her when they set up camp later that night. Nabooru was left to her own devices, and so allowed her mind to return to the tallest tower, where Eshe and Abayomi were talking.

Eshe’s room was just below her son’s, to keep a close eye on him and protect him should the worst come to pass. Her bed was even laid against the far wall like a seating-couch, so that she could leap up if she heard even the slightest footfall coming up the staircase. Fortunately for them, it never did. Now they stood together in that little room, the light from the window glinting off of the countless swords and spears leaning against the walls, some mere gifts from afar or relics of her younger days, although some had been scuffed with recent use. They stood near a large mahogany trunk at the far end of the chamber.

“The first time I ever saw you was in this room.”

“Mother?”

“This is where you were born. I had planned to journey to Fola’s home in the village when it was time, but I fell sick. Something inside of me had burst, and I was bleeding from within. We had to take you out here, in my bedroom, a few months early. It was during the rainy season. Fola was delayed by the landslides, but she fought the earth and the water to come here. Now you know why I call her your aunt, even if she is not my sister; on that day, she saved my life. She put me back together after I had you, before I lost too much blood.”

“She saved me as well, didn’t she?”

Esha laughed, “No, Aba. You were the Prince, and the Prince must be born every century, because he is the spirit of his age, and because his people need him. I lived because of Fola’s work, and also because I wanted to live for you. Even before I knew you were my son, I wanted to be there, watching over you, guiding you. I wanted to be the one to show you our family, to make you a part of our history. You are the Prince, yes, but you are also an Ashanti. You are the pride and joy of our family, and you are the one who will make the Ashanti line into the bloodline of Queens.”

She sighed, clasping her great hands around his small shoulders. “Still, when I first held you, you were no larger than a cask of wine. You hadn’t even the strength in you to cry. Your skin was like paper, and I could see every vein, every bone beneath your skin. There were times when I feared that the protection that destiny bestows upon our Princes would be withheld from you.” She pulled her hands up to his cheeks, “And now, here you are, standing before me, about to become a man.”

She ushered him towards the mahogany chest that was laid against the wall. Her rough fingers undid the clasp and opened it, revealing the clothing inside.

“This is yours. Finally, it is finished. Take this robe, and remember us when you wear it. In this way, we will be right beside you as you become our King.”

He ran his hands across the red folds of his birthright: a robe of deep crimson, embroidered with golden threads as fine as hair. Its embroidering had begun just a few days after he was born. The threads told the story of his family, and of his life up until the present. Here, at his chest, was his family crest, next to his heart. Here was his great great-grandmother pulling a woman and her children free of the encroaching floodwaters. Towards his abdomen, his mother, driving a spear through the heart of a dragon, grimacing as she faced the flames spewing from its mouth. Lower still was she, older now, cradling him in her arms. At her feet lay a scene of him at the tender age of eleven, meeting the survivors of a village ravaged by plague to lay his hands upon the sick, calling down the blessings of Father Night to heal them. He would greet his wife wearing his history, the memory of his mother, his grandmothers, as far back as their blood could remember. 

“Thank you, Mother,” Abayomi said as he bowed his head.

They stood like that for a moment, the dutiful son bowing before his mother. Then, a ripple of emotion went through both of them, pushing them into each other, Abayomi burying his face into his mother’s shoulder, and Eshe stepping forward to embrace her son.

“I wish you could come with me,” he stammered, “I know you are Chief, so you must stay here, but I wish you could come with me.”

“Aba,” his mother whispered, “Do not weep. This is goodbye, but not forever. Two months after you have met your Queen, and have become our King, you will return to see us, as is the way. Between visits, you can even write me letters.” She laughed, “I doubt that previous princes had that luxury! They didn’t have a railroad running through their homes like you will!”

She stroked the tears off his cheeks with her thumb, still smiling, even with her heavy peach-pit heart.

“Promise me one thing, Aba.”

“Anything, Mother.”

“If anything happens,” She took a deep breath, looking for the words, “If she does anything to you, or acts untoward, promise that you will send for me.”

“Mother!”

“I will send Ulu to come get you right away.”

At this, he flinched.

“I am sure there will be no need for that.”

“Still, remember that you always have a home here. Remember that if you ever need us, call, and we will come for you. You may be her husband, but you will always be my son.”

“…I promise.”

He held her tighter and shuddered in her arms, crying into her chest until there was nothing in him left to give. After that, he went still, and then pulled himself away, pulling his hood over his eyes so that its shadow would hide their redness. 

“We can’t keep them waiting any longer,” he sighed, “Let us go.”

Eshe scooped her son’s wedding clothes carefully into her arms, and together they went back to the waiting crowd. Back to Chiku, grandstanding for the girls, basking in their clapping and their shrieks as she flipped her pike around her shoulders, then tossed it up in the air and caught it with her eyes closed. Ulu, with a massive water jug over one shoulder and the little girl perched on the other, her robes and cheeks now dry. Nabooru followed mother and son back to the crowd, and then walked past them back into herself.

Ulu put down the last jug inside of the cart, and gently put the girl back down on the ground, nodding to her. She then moved to her place beside the prince, but took care to grab Chiku by the scruff and pull her along as well.

Chiku’s eyes darted across the crowd, head bobbing, mouth twiddling in an uncertain grin, unsure of what to do with herself now that things had taken a turn for the serious. Ulu’s eyes were fixed on the back of the Prince’s head. Abayomi’s two guards, sworn to protect him with their lives.

The three women were brought the tribe’s finest horses from the stables. A fleet-footed, sand-colored messenger horse for Chiku, a solid and sturdy brown workhorse for Ulu, and a handsome filly with a grey mane for Nabooru. Abayomi ascended into his carriage. Riding was too dangerous for a Prince; if he were thrown from the saddle, it could spell the end of an entire generation’s hope. The curtains would protect him from the sun and the elements, and would hide him from the prying eyes of roving bandits.

Eshe was the one who led Nabooru’s horse through the gate. As she let go of the reigns, she gripped Nabooru’s hand in hers one last time. “May Din bless this journey, my friend. Please see my son there safely.”

“Fear not, my sister. I love him as if he were my own blood. There will be a sixty-first time.”

The parade of goodbyes that had lingered for a bit too long had ended, and each woman knew she could no longer delay what must be. The hour of departure was finally at hand.

The wailing came together from pieces that unearthed themselves within the crowd. It was Fola who began to weep first, and the older women began to follow suit, as they, too, had cared for the Prince when he was young and small enough to cradle in their arms. The youngest girls could not stand to see their grandmothers weep so, and, moved to sympathy, began to sob along with them. The women were next, sad to see their young Prince leave them. Some had played with him as children, despite his sequestering. Others held him as the object of innocent childish fantasies that came to nothing, years ago, dreaming that they would become the next Queen through chance, or through some arduous journey to rescue him from some rampaging bandits, or perhaps from the jealous clutches of the Witch King himself. Saying goodbye to him was also saying goodbye to their childhood games and fancies.

These pieces, sobs and sighs alike, began to collect together, until they became a storm of sorrow, following the Prince and lapping against the caravan as they left the valley behind them.

Chief Eshe’s shoulders did not shake, not even as the crowd and their valley began to shrink in to the distance. Of course, Nabooru knew that if she could see just a little bit further, she could spot the tracks of Eshe’s tears as they crept down her cheeks.

Abayomi had no tears left to cry, but he gripped the fabric on his arm with white knuckles.

Ulu rode up beside Nabooru. “There was nothing that we have forgotten. I checked each cart three times myself. We have more than enough supplies to last us for the three weeks it will take for us to get to the Moonflower caves to gather his bridal crown, and then to Jaha’s village.”

“And don’t forget the food!” Chiku called out from ahead of them, standing up in her stirrups, showing off.

Ulu sighed and rolled her eyes, “Yes, we have enough to eat as well. And some extra in case we need to repay someone for giving us lodgings.” 

“It seems like you haven’t missed anything,” said Nabooru, “Excellent work, my dear.”

“You forgot about me,” said Ganondorf, his tongue lolling from his missing jaw.

  


Nabooru took a sharp breath and turned around.

There was nothing behind her but the distant mountains of Yoru.

“Mother Nabooru,” Chiku called, “You alright back there?”

The Great Sage sighed and shook her head, “Yes, I’m fine. Don’t rush me. These old bones don’t move like they used to.”

She urged her horse forward to catch up with the caravan.


End file.
